this is the tale of two fifty-five in the morning;
there is no sleep.
he is lying on my bed:
his eyes are squeezed shut.
the sheets are rough–
he is squirming and
there are fingertips teasing his vagina;
its juice is staining the air he sucks in.
he is moaning rather like a G.i.r.l
as he reaches the only high cocaine can’t give,
and the sweat on his (cocked) brow tastes like
tastes like breezes stolen
from the Gulf of Mexico on a hot night.
his vagina is moist
(his pussy is wet),
and I am listening as he sings me lullabies
while I torture his libido effectively
with the tip of my sugared tongue